


Keeping Down Appearances

by Mitch



Category: Keeping Up Appearances
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 11:56:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7933726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mitch/pseuds/Mitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seriously, Sheridan and Tarquin, could there be any more obvious a couple, or in Hyacinth a more oblivious mother? Every time he calls, though, I'm just confident Hyacinth is missing more than she usually does! That boy grew up learning to hide his true self and his disdain. Richard set a fine example and Sheridan learned from it. Here's a short scene of what's going on at the other end of one of Sheridan and Hyacinth's calls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping Down Appearances

Keeping Down Appearances

By Mitch

"Sheridan!" Hyacinth Bucket (that's pronounced Bouquet) shrieked into her white princess slimline telephone. "How brilliant of you to ring Mummy right when I was thinking of you. We must be psychically connected. You need what, dear?

Richard Bucket (that's pronounced Bucket) peeked out from the kitchen doorway "How much is it going to cost me, whatever it is?"

"Now, Richard," she said in a high-pitched tone, one palm covering the receiver, "School supplies. Vital to continuing his education!"

Richard sighed and shook his head. "I can't imagine he needs more needlepoint supplies already."

"He's gone on from that interest he says," she informed him with a bright grin. "You remember his friend, Tarquin? The cultured young man with a taste so refined he only wears silk pajamas? What's that, Darling? Four hundred pounds?"

His shoulders slumped. "Four hundred pounds," he whispered as he wandered destitute, back into the kitchen.

In London's posh West Brompton, with a postal code rather more than quite exclusive, Sher rolled onto his back and glared at his lover. His voice, though, maintained its sickly sweet accent. "Only two hundred, Mummy darling. Tarquin thought it would be most keen if we had matching ascots for the reception at the museum next week. Only the best critics will be there. The upper crust of only the best class of people."

Tarquin shook his head and rolled his eyes. He stepped out of his boxer briefs and strolled into the bath. Steam rolled from the shower and wisps made their way into the bedroom.

Five minutes later Sher joined him under the warm water. The muscular young man with sun-bronzed skin glared at the new arrival. "Why do you continue to torture your father so?"

"Daddy?" Sher lathered soap onto Tarquin's back, paying attention to the knife scar by his left hip and then the three bullet exit wounds on his upper right shoulder.

"You know what I mean, Sher." Tarquin turned and pulled the loofah from his lover's hand and dabbed lather on the recently formed scar over Sheridan's right thigh. "Had that damned weapons dealer been a bit quicker he'd have caught you in a spot that's very dear to me. You have to remember you're not really double aught seven."

"Had Mi-5 such, I'd definitely be the one with that designation." He grinned and kissed Tarquin's wet lips.

"When are you going to tell your parents you're no longer in school?"

"And fill in that gap with what? Yes, Mummy, your dear little chap is off being a spy for Queen and country? I think not."

"At least your father," Tarquin insisted. "Let him off sending you those mincemeat cheques. They seem to stress him so. He needs the money."

"If he ever does need the money for anything other than her latest infatuation," he paused and kissed his way down Tarquin's wet chest, "the pounds will be there. Right, right," he gave in when Tarquin stepped away before he could engulf the man's beautiful cock in his hungry mouth. "I suppose I still do it as some sort of revenge. My father could have done a few things to relieve the hideousness in my childhood."

Tarquin shuddered in sympathy. "Those baby pictures. The school play costumes. The fancy-dress balls. Still, darling, before our next mission you should have a chat with him, eh?"

"Tell you what. If it's North Africa I'll have a conversation with him, but if it's Afghanistan he'll be writing me a cheque for those silk brocade slippers I can't live without."

Tarquin gave in, as he so often did to Sheridan's brilliant blues. Just like hand-painted periwinkles, they were.

End


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